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Not much to me is yonder laneWhere I go every day;But when there’s been a shower of rainAnd hedge-birds whistle gay,I know my lad that’s out in FranceWith fearsome things to seeWould give his eyes for just one glanceAt our white hawthorn tree.* * * * *Not much to me is yonder laneWhere he so longs to tread;But when there’s been a shower of rainI think I’ll never weep againUntil I’ve heard he’s dead.